William Strode

On The Bible - Poem by William Strode

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Behold this little volume here inrolde:'Tis the Almighty's present to the world:Hearken earth's earth; each sencelesse thing can heareHis Maker's thunder, though it want an eare:God's word is senior to his works, nay ratherIf rightly weigh'd the world may call it father;God spake, 'twas done; this great foundationIs the Creator's ExhalationBreath'd out in speaking. The best work of manIs better than his word; but if wee scanneGod's word aright, his works far short doe fall;The word is God, the works are creatures all.The sundry peeces of this generall frameAre dimmer letters, all which spell the sameEternal word; But these cannot expresseHis greatnesse with such easy readinesse,And therefore yeild. The Heavens shall pass away,The sun and moone and stars shall all obeyTo light one general bonfire; but his word,His builder-upp, his all-destroying sworde,That still survives; no jott of that can dye,Each tittle measures immortalitie.

The word's owne mother, on whose breast did hangThe world's upholder drawne into a span,Shee, shee was not so blest because she bare himAs cause herselfe was new-born, and did hear him.Before she had brought forth she heard her SonFirst speaking in the Annunciation:And then, even then, before she brought forth child,By name of Blessed shee herselfe instilde.

Once more this mighty word his people greets,Thus lapt and thus swath'd upp in paper sheets:Read here God's Image with a zealous eye,The legible and written Deity.